The New Noah (12 page)

Keeping the beam directed into the creature’s eyes, I leant forward, slipped the noose of cord gently over his head, and then, with a quick jerk, pulled him right out of the water and into
the boat, where he wriggled and uttered loud indignant snoring grunts. As soon as they heard these protests, all the other baby caymans for miles around started grunting in sympathy, but this
proved to be their undoing, for by listening to the direction from which the grunts came, I could tell where the greatest number of them were hiding, and it was not long before I had a bulging sack
on the floor of the canoe which wriggled and slithered as the reptiles moved inside. This great quantity of caymans made such a noise that we could not progress any farther, for everything for
miles around could hear the canoe coming with all the baby caymans grunting in unison.

One of the strangest inhabitants of this watery world of the creeks was the pipa toad. It is probably one of the most extraordinary amphibians in the world, for it is quite literally a toad with
pockets. I caught some of these strange creatures in a small leaf-choked channel leading off one of the big main creeks. They were so very like the messy decomposed leaves that at first sight I did
not recognize them as anything living. They measure about five inches long and look rather like very flat leathery brown kites with a leg at each corner. They did not spit and struggle when I
picked them up, as most toads and frogs would do, but lay quite limply relying on their resemblance to the dead leaves to protect them.

One of the specimens I caught was a female with eggs, and I was particularly pleased with this, as it gave me a chance to watch the astonishing hatching of the baby toads. When the female lays
her eggs, the male presses them into the skin on her back which has grown soft and spongy in order to receive them. So at first sight they look like transparent beads half buried in the brown
leathery skin. Gradually the half of the egg that is above the skin hardens and forms little convex lids, so the eggs remain in the mother’s back in this series of pockets and slowly change
into tadpoles and then into tiny toads, each one so small that it would take six of them to cover a postage stamp. When the baby toads are ready to hatch, the edge of the eggshell sticking above
the skin becomes soft, and, by wriggling and pushing, the little creatures manage to push the lids back, like trapdoors, and then by much exertion they manage to haul themselves out of their
strange potholes – like nurseries in their mother’s back.

This big female that I caught in the creek lands spent her time in a big tin can, lying on the surface of the water, quite still, and looking as though she had not only been dead several days,
but as though decomposition had already set in. Gradually, I watched the eggs on her back harden into little lids, and then I waited patiently for the baby toads to make their appearance. In actual
fact, they put off their entry into the world until I was on the homeward voyage and half-way across the Atlantic, when they chose the most awkward time to appear.

It was about midnight, just when I had finished the work and was thinking of retiring to my cabin, that I glanced at the female pipa toad, before switching out the light in the hold, and saw a
strange little black twig which appeared to be growing out of her back. On looking closer, I discovered that one of the small lids had been pushed away and this black object was the tiny arm of a
baby toad sticking out of his nursery and waving to and fro. As I watched, he managed to get the other arm out and then his head, when he paused for a moment and looked for all the world like a
tiny black workman coming out of a manhole in a road.

It took him about four or five minutes to get right out of his nursery and he lay there for some time on her back, apparently exhausted by his efforts. Then he slid off and plopped into the
water, where he started to swim around merrily. I waited there patiently, and presently another of the tiny lids was pushed back and a second baby toad started to wave his arm at me.

As I was squatting there, absorbed and fascinated by this extraordinary sight, I was joined by two sailors who, coming down from their watch on the bridge, had seen the light on in the hold and
had wondered if there was anything the matter and, if so, whether they could help. They were rather surprised to find me crouching over a tin at that hour of the night and asked what I was doing. I
explained the history of the big female pipa toad and how we had caught her in the mysterious creek lands and how, now, the babies were busily hatching out of her back. The two sailors squatted
down beside me and watched the arrival of yet another baby toad, and soon they became as fascinated as I.

Presently, the three of us were joined by yet more sailors who had wondered what had happened to their companions. Once more, I told them the tale of the toad with pockets and they too became so
intrigued that they sat down to watch the hatching of the toads. When one baby, more weak than the others, took an extra long time to get out of his pocket, the sailors grew very worried and wanted
to know if they could help him with the aid of a matchstick, but I explained that the baby toad was so fragile that the matchstick would appear to him like a tree trunk, and however gently we tried
a manoeuvre it, it was more than likely to break one of his thread-like arms or legs.

Eventually, when this baby hoisted its toes out of the pocket and fell in an exhausted heap on his mother’s back, there was a general sigh of relief. Dawn had broken before the last of the
toads plopped into the water, and we rose from our cramped positions and went down into the kitchens of the ship to see if we could beg an early-morning cup of tea from the cook. But in spite of
the fact that we all yawned over our work that day, we agreed it had been well worth sitting up all night to watch the arrival of the baby toads.

The pipa toads were not, of course, the only unusual amphibians to be found in the creek lands. Guiana seemed to have more than its fair share of unusual toads and frogs.

Next to the pipa toads I think the strangest we caught was the paradoxical frog. We first came across evidence of this creature late one night when my friend and I were dredging a small stream
to see what we could catch. Presently, my friend called to me and said that he had caught the strangest creature: it looked just like a tadpole, except that it was about six inches long, with a
body about the same size as a hen’s egg.

My friend and I had a long argument as to what this peculiar beast could be; he insisted that it must be some kind of fish, as if it were a tadpole it would grow into a giant frog. I was just as
certain that it must be a tadpole. It was only after we had argued for some time that I suddenly remembered having read about this weird amphibian, and then I knew that the creature we had captured
was the tadpole of the paradoxical frog.

The paradoxical frog’s life history works in the opposite way to an ordinary frog. With a common frog the spawn hatches out into tiny tadpoles, and these grow until, on attaining a certain
size, they develop legs, their tail is absorbed, and they crawl out on to dry land as a medium-sized frog. This is one of the most extraordinary things in the world, for the paradoxical frog is
bigger when it is a baby than when it is fully grown.

Another curious frog found in this part of South America is the pouched frog. This little beast cares for its young in almost as unusual a way as the pipa toad. The female pouched frog has a
long slit in the skin of her back that opens into a sort of pocket; into this the eggs are placed, and the female more or less forgets about them. Inside the pocket the eggs change into tadpoles,
the tadpoles grow legs and their tails are absorbed, and when they are ready for the world, the mother thereupon splits the skin down her back, and out pop the babies, each not much larger than the
knob on the top of a knitting-needle.

One of the smallest but most powerful amphibians caught by us in Guiana was the poison arrow frog. These are small tree frogs, each measuring perhaps an inch and a half long, and decked out in
the most wonderful colours and patterns. There are several species, and they might be red and gold striped on a cream background, or pink and blue on a black background, or any other combination of
colours. They are very lovely little things, and a jar full of them looks more like a mass of highly-coloured sweets than live creatures. To the Indian tribes these little frogs are most useful.
They catch a number and put them close to a fire. As soon as the frogs start to become hot they exude a kind of slime from their bodies, which the Indians scrape off and collect. This slime,
prepared in a special way, is a most potent poison, and the Indians use it to dip the tips of their arrows in. Thus, when the arrow strikes an animal – even a quite powerful one, like a wild
pig – the poison works very rapidly and kills the beast. So, for the Indians, each of these little tree frogs is a miniature poison factory in itself, and whenever they need fresh material
for their arrows they go off into the forest and collect a number of the frogs from which to manufacture it.

One of the most charming but irritating specimens that I got in Guiana was Cuthbert the curassow. I bought him when I was up in the creeklands, and he started being a nuisance
almost immediately. The curassow are large birds, as big as a turkey, with jet black feathers all over their bodies, bright yellow feet and a thick yellow beak. The feathers on the top of their
heads stand up and curl forwards in a short crest, and they have large, dark eyes with a mad expression in them.

Cuthbert arrived, being carried by his owner, who was a fat and shy little Chinaman. When I purchased the bird, the Chinaman stooped and placed him on the ground near my feet. He stood there for
a minute or two blinking his eyes and uttering a soft plaintive ‘peet-peet-peet’, a noise which was amazing, coming from such a large and fierce-looking bird. I bent down and started to
scratch his curly crest and immediately Cuthbert closed his eyes and fell flat on the ground, shaking his wings with delight and giving a sort of throaty crooning noise.

The Chinaman assured me that he was very tame and that I did not need to shut him up in a cage, as he would not wander away. Since Cuthbert seemed to have taken such a fancy to me I decided that
this was probably correct. When I left off scratching his head, however, he rose to his feet and walked closely beside my legs, still peeting ridiculously. Very slowly he crept forward until he was
close enough, and then he lay down across my shoes, closed his eyes, and started to croon again. He was gentle and so sloppy in his character that there and then I decided to call him Cuthbert, as
I felt that this was the only name that really suited him.

On the evening of Cuthbert’s arrival, I was sitting at a small table in our hut, endeavouring to write up my diary, when Cuthbert, who had been wandering thoughtfully about the room,
decided that it was time he bestowed a little affection on me. So he flew up on to the table with a great flapping of wings and walked across it, peeting in a pleased tone, and tried to lie down
across the paper on which I was writing. I pushed him away irritably, and as he stepped backwards, with a look of outraged astonishment on his face at such treatment, one of his great chicken-like
feet upset the ink, which, needless to say, went all over the diary, so that I had to rewrite two pages of it.

While I was doing this, Cuthbert made several attempts to climb into my lap but I warned him off vigorously, and eventually he wandered away and stood in deep thought for a few minutes. He
decided that approaching me in this slow manner was not successful and so he would have to try and take me by surprise. He waited until I was not looking and then took off and tried to fly up on to
my shoulder. He missed his mark, of course, and crashed on to the table with outstretched wings, uttering a shrill squawk of dismay, and upsetting the ink for a second time. I left him in no doubt
as to how angry I was and so he retreated into a corner of the room and sat there sulking.

Presently my companion came into the hut, in order to perform the nightly task of hanging up the hammocks in which we slept. He pulled them out of the corner where they were stacked, and was
busily occupied in disentangling them from their ropes when Cuthbert spotted him and decided that if I would not pay any attention to him, perhaps my companion would. He cautiously crept across the
room and then lay down just behind my friend’s feet and closed his eyes.

While my friend was struggling with the ropes and hammocks, he stepped backwards suddenly and tripped over the bird behind him. Cuthbert gave a squawk of alarm and retired to his corner once
more. When he thought my friend’s attention was fully occupied, he came out, crept up to him and lay down across his shoes for the second time. The next thing I knew, there was a crash and my
companion fell to the floor, together with all the hammocks, and from beneath the tangled mass of mosquito nets, rope, and canvas, Cuthbert’s head peered out, peeting with great indignation
at such unmannerly treatment. I made up my mind that he had caused quite enough trouble for one evening, so I took him over to the part of the hut where I kept the animals and tied him with a long
cord round his leg to a heavy box and left him there, peeting away vigorously to himself.

Late that night, when we were asleep in our hammocks, I was woken by a terrific uproar coming from the direction of the animals’ cages. I jumped out of my hammock and, seizing the small
lantern which I always kept by my bed for such emergencies, dashed over to see what was happening. I found Cuthbert sitting on the floor, looking extremely annoyed and peeting away to himself.
Apparently, he had looked round the various cages and decided that the only one that would be suitable for him to roost on was the cage inhabited by a group of small squirrel monkeys. So he had
flown up on top and prepared himself for sleep. Unfortunately, he did not notice that his tail was dangling down in front of the bars and in the bright moonlight the monkeys could see it quite
clearly. They were very intrigued by it, and so they pushed their hands out through the bars to feel it and find out what it was. When Cuthbert felt them lay hold of his tail, he obviously thought
that he was being attacked by some monstrous animal and flew up to the ceiling like a rocket, leaving two of his large tail feathers still firmly gripped in the monkeys’ paws. It took me a
long time to soothe his ruffled feelings and to fix him up a new place to sleep, on which he felt quite safe from attack from the rear.